Page 41 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

I swiveled my head to stare at Greg, certain I couldn’t be hearing him right. “You thinkSloaneis a gold digger?”

His red color deepened until it reached the tips of his ears. “I didn’t say that.”

“A woman who owns a cardigan in every color of the rainbow?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“A woman who sat quietly and listened while your grandfather went over every detail of his JFK conspiracy theories?”

“Some of those CIA theories carry real weight.”

“A woman who literally lost her job to make sure he wasn’t left alone inside that house for one night longer than he had to be?”

Greg pounced eagerly on that one, a dog so desperate for a bone that the tiniest sliver satisfied him. “That’s what I mean. Who does that? No one is that nice in real life—not unless they have an ulterior motive.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “Sloane won’t hurt him.” I hesitated before adding, “Or you.”

He couldn’t have reacted more strongly if I’d hit him over the head with a Ouija board. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He absolutely did, but I wasn’t about to push my luck. Instead, I sent off a text to Bella, careful not to emit any of the details of Great-Aunt Portia’s mythical fortune. That child never could resist a treasure hunt.

“If you’re worried about Sloane’s quality of care, then we’ll just have to head over there to keep an eye on things.” At his startled expression, I patted my hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll be with you every step of the way. As someone wise once told me, I might not be very good at handling teenagers, but irascible old men are something I can do.”

13

“What do you mean, he has to have a registered nurse? Hehada registered nurse. Four of them. He ran them all off.”

No sooner had Greg and I made our way across the street than we found Sloane standing at the door talking to a woman in a suit. It was an official-looking suit, and she was an official-looking woman, but neither of those did much to make me feel better.

“I’m sorry, but it’s not my call to make,” the woman said. “When he left the hospital against medical advice, Adult Protective Services required us to—”

“Could you please keep your voice down?” Sloane stepped the rest of the way out of the house and closed the front door behind her. She was dustier than usual today, her hair swept up in a kerchief like she’d recently returned from picking apples in the countryside. The purple brooch she never went without held the scarf together at the back of her neck. “Arthur just dropped off to sleep, and that’s only because I told him he had to either nap or listen to my favorite soap-making podcast.”

The suit woman blinked bewilderedly at her.

“He hates podcasts,” Sloane explained. “And anything that reeks of domesticity. He hates almost everything, including registered nurses and the people who come to force them on him.”

“Now see here, young lady. If this is an attempt to scare me away before I meet with Mr. McLachlan…”

I coughed and nudged Greg with my foot. So far, he hadn’t said a word about the events unfolding on his grandfather’s doorstep.

“I’m not attempting anything except to save you from sharp-edged projectiles.” Sloane didn’t go so far as to nudge Greg, but she did turn a pair of beseeching eyes his way. “Help me, Greg. Tell her you’re his family. Tell her you refuse to force unwanted medical care on your grandfather.”

The woman perked up, her pen poised above her clipboard with a suddenly sprightly air. “Oh. Are you the next of kin?”

It took Greg a moment to respond, and when he did, he sounded more like he was grunting than speaking. “Yeah. Sure.”

The woman handed him a piece of paper with a stamp across the top. “Then I’m giving you a week to find him proper home care, or we’ll have no choice but to intervene.” She turned to all three of us with a smile that was far too pleased with her day’s work. “I’m sure this young lady means well, but he needs to have a professional caregiver on his rotation until he’s restored to full health. For his safety as well as yours.”

We stood back and watched as she trotted down the steps, waving a cheerful farewell as she slid into her understated blue sedan and drove away. It said a lot about our current state that none of us spoke until she rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

“Do you think she’d count a chiropractor as a professional caregiver?” I asked as soon as I felt it was safe enough to speak.

The grimace that passed reflexively over Sloane’s face was all the answer I needed.

“Oh dear,” I murmured. “He won’t come back here, will he? After we ran him away last time?”

“Who?” Greg asked.